


loafers

by Cloudnine101



Series: Queer [2]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Homophobia, M/M, POV Second Person, Secret Relationship, Teacher-Student Relationship, University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-15 01:11:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4587318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cloudnine101/pseuds/Cloudnine101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"Then what is your type? Puppies? Ponies? Blue gazelles?"</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	loafers

You're at the back of the auditorium. It's summer. It's muggy. The conditioning's on full blast, and you're still sweating. 

Roxy fidgets. She pulls down her skirt. She crosses her legs. Her socks are rolled down.

"Not very ladylike," you say, and she flicks your cheek. "Hey!"

She frowns, and then smiles, and tosses her hair. It falls down over her shoulder. She's wearing a blue ribbon. Her glasses are missing.

"Don't look now," she says, "but rumour has it, Amelia's going to ask you out."

You take a peek to your left. You shake your head.

"Nah. She's just readin'. She's not - "

Roxy snorts. You scowl. You stretch. You have black stains, on your underarms. The windows are shut. You're sitting in a room with twenty - maybe more - other people. You sweat like hogs.

"Is someone tryin' to roast us to death?"

"Gentlemanly," Roxy comments, and ducks away from your textbook. "Maybe that's their plan. Fry our brains before this year begins."

It seems sensible. No doubt about it. No doubt whatsoever. You're all choking - stifled.

You look to the side again, neck clicking and clacking. Amelia's still got her nose in-between the pages. She's wearing a blue cardigan, and black pumps. She's chewing on her lip. She's got long legs.

"Alright," you say, "fine. So, if she does ask me out - which she might not - what do I - uh - say?"

Roxy stares at you. You blink.

"Well," she says, slowly, "accepting wouldn't be out of the question."

"Err, Rox," you say, "she ain't my type."

Roxy huffs. "Then what is your type? Puppies? Ponies? Blue gazelles?"

"Girls, alright! It's not - she's - " You wave a hand. "Pretty. It's just - "

"She's not pretty enough." Roxy shakes her head. "Boys. You're all the same."

"Men, technically," you say, and smile, as widely and brightly as you can.

"Not yet." And then: "Boys. Speaking of which."

Roxy smiles, glittering. She leans up close to your ear.

"How are the study dates?"

Her breath tickles your cheek. You lean back.

"God, Rox, don't even start." You shake your head. "He's such an arse."

She folds her arms over her chest, and smiles. "Improves your test results."

You snort. "Like shit. He's stuck in the nineteenth century. Maybe further back. Stupid loafers."

You spit out the word. Roxy sighs.

"He is trying to help, you know. And it's a great service."

"Stuck at his place all evening? Please. It's like being trapped in a chicken coop." You put your hands up. "Madness."

"Come on. The man must have some good points, surely. He's taking you on."

"Nope. Not a single thing."

Roxy bites her lip. "Well," she says, "at least your knowledge of literature has broadened."

You smack her with the book, and this time, she doesn't flinch away. She laughs, instead.

 

 

He's waiting for you, when you go out to the car. He opens the door for you. You slip inside. You drop your bag on the backseat. You fold your arms.

He looks across at you, glasses falling down his nose, and smiles. A flash. A spark. A puff.

"Where to?" he says.

You sink back into the leather, and breathe it in.

"Home," you say. "Now."

He smiles, and starts the engine. It thrums.

For a while, you drive in silence. He turns out onto the road, and you watch him. He looks in the rear view mirror. He looks in the wing mirror. The car hums, and bounces.

"What are we doin' tonight?" you say.

"I was considering Brontë," he replies, lips tugging upwards. He smells of chamomile, and smoke.

"I didn't mean that."

He's wearing a grey suit, today, with the sleeves rolled up. Black shoes. Shiny. Posh. 

He tuts. "Darling," he says, "if you're going to insist - "

"Me? I'm the one insistin'?"

"Double standards," he clucks, and chucks you beneath the chin. You lean to was him, and rest your head on his shoulder. "How was histroy? I take it Henry the Eighth's politics were to your liking."

"Don't," you say. "Don't even start."

You shudder, and he chuckles, and you shudder again.

"Too cold for you?" he says, one brow rising. He smirks, and adjusts the wheel minutely.

"Shut up," you shoot back. Harry gleams gently. "Tart."


End file.
